


The Modalities of Elevators

by Prinzenhasserin



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Arguing during sex, Asphyxiation, Banter, Clothed Sex, Competence Kink, Consensual But Not Safe Or Sane, Elevator Sex, Enemies With Benefits, Frottage, M/M, Power Dynamics, Rough Sex, Sex with an ulterior motive, Trapped In Elevator
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-21
Updated: 2018-04-21
Packaged: 2019-04-25 03:20:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,056
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14369793
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Prinzenhasserin/pseuds/Prinzenhasserin
Summary: Sherlock is investigating a very average case, when suddenly the elevator stops and a very interesting passenger enters.





	The Modalities of Elevators

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Trobadora](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trobadora/gifts).



> Dear Trobadora, your prompts were very exciting, and I hope I managed something you enjoy. This was beta-read by iberiandoctor, who is amazing, and all remaining mistakes are mine.

“Oh dear,” Moriarty said, and smiled at him guilelessly.

Sherlock wanted to do the same; would have done the same if he could muster up even a smidge of the pretensions Moriarty excelled in. 

' _Oh dear'_ perfectly summed up the current situation, which went somewhat like this: Sherlock was consulting with a secretary who suspected her current boss of underhanded dealings with the Russian mob, and more precise: the Russian oligarchy. Sherlock had investigated her office on the 67th floor of the Heron Tower, and had returned to the elevator without tripping any alarms—or so he thought, since the elevator had shut down unexpectedly through no apparent interference from him between floor 50 and 49.

He had let John know where he was, but received no answer. He’d tried to contact the emergency line for the repair service, but as usual, that was broken and didn’t work, so he proceeded to open the latch hiding the electronics and pulled out the cables.

Then, there had been a loud thud, and the carriage started shaking, as if something had landed on the ceiling. Sherlock had braced himself, but he hadn’t prepared himself for Moriarty—coming through the escape latch feet first, but undeniably himself.

“Nobody could have survived that shot through the head,” Sherlock said, instead of all the much cleverer things he could have said.

“Oh dear,” Moriarty had said, and smiled.

There was no time to think about the repercussions, no time to speculate about how or why Moriarty was here, now—though if anyone could have evaded the combined attentions of the Holmes’ siblings it would have been Moriarty. There was no time for any of that, since Moriarty pulled a razor wire out of his backpack, and proceeded to try and strangle Sherlock.

He was less good at it than he had been before his alleged demise. Which was fortunate, as Sherlock hadn’t been keeping up with his kickboxing in the intervening period.

“Mycroft will be coming for me,” Sherlock panted, in between trying to pin Moriarty’s arms against the wall. 

“Come on, what’s a little asphyxiation between... old acquaintances,” Moriarty said. “Mycroft will understand that I just couldn’t help myself. After all, he’s prone to his own errors in judgement…"

Sherlock shoved him into the wall, away from him. Then, using the second of distraction in his favour, he ripped all the cords he could get his hands on out of the electronic panel. They sparked, and a smell of burnt rubber filled the small space. "Oh, electric stimulation," Moriarty mocked. "You’re more adventurous than I remember."

"How did you survive," Sherlock asked, and twisted his cables into a form he could use more easily on Moriarty. There was a spark, and a yelp, and then the small space was plunged into darkness – the emergency strips of LED lighting more a hindrance than a help. He could hear Moriarty panting in the darkness of the elevator.

"The more interesting question is, how did you survive?" Moriarty said. Strangely, his voice seemed to be coming from the corner in front of him, rather than from behind him. "Or rather, the most interesting question will be, how will we both survive this?" 

Sherlock heard something small metallic hit the floor. The wire? Something else Moriarty had thought to bring on his criminal adventures?

Then, warm hands wrapped around his throat. They weren’t yet trying to suffocate him, and anyway Sherlock knew he could easily break their hold. What he didn’t know was how Moriarty had survived. Because he couldn't have faked his suicide--it was not possible, they would have known. He wanted answers, and the only one who could provide them was standing right here. 

"You want to know how I did it," the unmistakable voice of Moriarty whispered into his ears. Sherlock's hair stood on end, his entire being focused on the man in front of him, in an elevator of the London governmental offices between 49th and 50th floor. It was intimate, just like every scene Sherlock had imagined Moriarty since he had shot himself so he couldn't be made to reveal the failsafe. Moriarty was a man of principle, even if those principles weren't what usual men would file under principles. They weren't usual men, Moriarty and him.

"I am very curious," Sherlock said, keeping his voice level. The air was charged with electricity, and that was not a metaphor. Sherlock could feel it in the metal walls of the elevator, and between his boots. 

"What will you give me for telling you a secret," Moriarty said, and Sherlock could feel him swallow, could feel his hands tremble. 

"What do you want, Moriarty?"

"I want..." Moriarty said, and paused. He seemed troubled, confused. Sherlock had surprised him. "I want you to call off your brother. Both of your siblings." 

"Neither of whom are aware that you are alive," Sherlock said. "Or are they?"

Moriarty licked his lips. Sherlock could see it now, in the dim light of the emergency reflectors. Moriarty wasn't certain if Sherlock's brother knew that he was alive. Moriarty seemed very uncertain about a lot of things, including how he survived.

"You hadn’t planned on surviving," Sherlock realised. He had thought so, but it was certainly a relief to be proved right in his deduction. "And you also did not know I would be here today."

"A pleasant surprise," Moriarty said, but he managed to communicate his many conflicting feelings about the matter to Sherlock, who admittedly wasn't the Holmes with the best grasp on emotional undercurrents. "Because now I get to kill you."

He pressed closer, still not trying to choke Sherlock, but now pressed against the entire length of his body. He had lost weight, Sherlock registered. "I don't think you want to kill me," Sherlock said, and then used a reverse wrist-lock to break Moriarty’s grip. Moriarty let go of Sherlock's throat reflexively and then scrambled to keep a hold of him. Sherlock grappled him, and stepped on the razor wire he had dropped earlier so neither of them could use it. "You'd be much smarter about it."

"Maybe I've lost my edge," Moriarty groaned out against the pressure now on his oesophagus. "Maybe I'm trying to find it where I've lost it." 

"You want me to kill you," Sherlock said. He mustered Moriarty from top to bottom. Moriarty looked like he really had been trying to rob one of the offices. There was just one thing... "This is making you aroused." Sherlock said out loud. "Talking about killing you, is making you aroused." Sherlock let his grip slacken. This was an unexpected development.

Moriarty sneered. He slumped into himself like a pathetic heap, playing up his general demeanour to seem more vulnerable, thought Sherlock uncharitably. "It’s not like you’re better just because you can hide it."

"I am not aroused by you!" Sherlock protested, and that had clearly been the wrong move. Startled, he let go entirely. Sherlock should have protested that he hadn’t been trying to kill Moriarty, even though he didn’t make that decision easy. Moriarty went to his knees in a fluid move that was clearly practised. He looked up through his lashes. It was entirely artifice, practically screaming fake, but nevertheless, somehow, it was working. Moriarty grabbed at Sherlock’s crotch, and Sherlock felt himself twitching.

"Yes, clearly," Moriarty said, and meant anything but. "Only transport, yes, yes, I’ve heard it before."

"You’re depraved," Sherlock said, but it came out very much unlike the protest it had been intended as. His cock was half-erect, and becoming more interested in the proceedings by the minute. Moriarty likely attributed this solely to his own talents, but it was much more likely, Sherlock inferred, that the adrenaline was giving him a chemical boost—and repeated stimulation of his erogenous zones could only result in arousal. It had nothing to do with Moriarty.

And yet. He wouldn’t want Mycroft to find them copulating. And yet.

"I’ve won, haven’t I?" murmured Moriarty. "Let me suck your cock, and then we can go our separate ways. You haven’t got anything on me, and I haven’t got anything on you. Clean break."

"This is lunacy!" Sherlock said, clearly exasperated. "And what about this entire situation would indicate a clean break?"

Moriarty advanced on his knees. "Come on," he said, "let me suck your cock. For old times’ sake?"

"There are no old times!" Sherlock protested. He didn’t stop Moriarty from coming near him, though, from kneading his crotch with his hands, and slowly opening the zipper with his mouth. The emergency light felt like they were hiding a secret, like there were no consequences to what they were doing. 

"Very nice," Moriarty purred, and he made such a convincing homosexual. This was suspicious in and of itself, but Sherlock couldn’t put a finger on why it was so surprising . There was just one stray thought about what Mycroft would say to him, before Sherlock shoved all other thoughts aside.

There was absolutely no way he would let Moriarty win like this.

Moriarty exhaled against his cock—the warm breath making him shiver. His cock plumped up, expanding to its full length. Even though it was Moriarty who was on his knees, Sherlock was the one who felt like he was submitting. He grabbed a handful of Moriarty’s hair—fuller than it had been in his mind palace, and more real.

He tugged Moriarty away from his cock. "What do you think you're doing?" he muttered. "How do I know you won't bite it off?"

Moriarty looked at him, his eyes wide and eager, as if he never would have considered such a thing in his life, the liar. There was nothing to it, Sherlock wasn't going to let him suck his cock. "What do you want me to do?" Moriarty asked.

"Well, unless you have a spreader-gag in your bag, I'm saying no to a blow job. Surely, I'm not the first to have... concerns."

Moriarty grimaced, and closed his mouth. "Fair enough."

"I could ram my cock down your throat until you can't swallow," suggested Sherlock. He clearly needed to get a grip on this exchange, since thus far Moriarty had been in charge. This would never do. Ever since he’d been a teenager, Sherlock had been able to ignore his bodily needs, and he wasn’t going to stop now, suddenly that a pretty face had decided to drop on his knees in front of him.

"I'd much rather have you up here where I can see you," Sherlock continued. Moriarty, clearly caught unawares, let himself be manoeuvred into an upright position. Sherlock pressed him into the wall of the elevator. This afforded him a much better view into the mirror on the other side of the door, through which he could keep both Moriarty, and the hole on top of the elevator in sight. Moriarty had to be planning something, no way was he doing this simply because he had stumbled upon Sherlock. This way, he could let himself seem distracted, and still keep an eye on his surroundings, all the better to react if John, Mycroft or one of Moriarty’s underlings was to come along.

And this way, he could bite along Moriarty's bared neck, taking his frustrations out on the buttons of Moriarty’s shirt.

Moriarty wasn't pleased by the rough handling with which Sherlock treated his buttons, though, and slapped his hands away. He pinched Sherlock's own nipple through the cloth, and Sherlock yelped. "Stop that," Moriarty ordered, and then started kissing him. He kissed like he did everything else, with an intense focus that felt very familiar, somehow. There was no such thing as mind twins, but somehow, Moriarty was Sherlock's mirror, could pleasure himself and Sherlock at the same time. 

The kiss turned deeper, more filthy. Was Moriarty trying to drug him with something? It didn't feel like Moriarty had any hidden pills in his mouth, cyanide teeth, or any other failsafes. Moriarty found the retainer that hid Sherlock's secret lock pick, and hummed in elation. In retaliation Sherlock bit his lip. Moriarty let go, with a visible grin. "A genius idea, congratulations," he said. "I didn't think to check."

Moriarty’s hands had somehow found their way further down his back, enveloping his arse-- Sherlock had hitched up further, and his leg was now definitely pressing up against Moriarty's package.

He was erect, of course he was erect, he'd been the one to initiate this, but somehow Sherlock was still surprised. He could see the ecstasy in Moriarty's face, the ostensible abandonment, and yet but those things could be faked by an excellent actor. But could he fake his bodily reactions? 

Moriarty had snaked his hand into Sherlock’s pants, running his hand down Sherlock's abdomen, until he caught on his cock. Moriarty teased, played with the expectations of touch, began to stroke more firmly,then started building a proper rhythm. Then he would stop again, and stare at Sherlock underneath his lashes, until Sherlock urged him on. 

It was messy, having sex in an elevator. Sex, usually, was messy, too, but but this was definitely messier than normal. 

Moriarty tugged open Sherlock’s pants without asking, like the presumptuous, mannerless lout he was. In retaliation, Sherlock was much more rough with opening Moriarty’s in return—then, there was a little give, possibly through a seam giving up. Moriarty’s cock was standing attention, uncut, a slight curve to his erection. It was unfairly pretty, like Moriarty himself.

He smeared Moriarty's precum over the rest of his cock, so the chafing was kept at a minimum, and then he started to stroke Moriarty in earnest. Sherlock could study his reactions both directly and through the mirror, and sometimes he could see where the cracks between real and fake ended. It didn't matter to him, Sherlock had thought, until he'd seen Moriarty half-choke a moan that had been wrung out of him and he couldn't help his satisfied smile. 

Moriarty had bitten off more than he could chew, again, which Sherlock found rather satisfying. It didn't take long until Sherlock had Moriarty on the edge. He was punctuating every stroke with a tiny whimper that felt like it had been borrowed from an especially talented prostitute, but Sherlock wasn't complaining. He wished there was footage from the security cameras he could watch, later, provided that Moriarty hadn't disabled them earlier, or Sherlock himself had when he short-circuited the wire system.

Moriarty was getting close, Sherlock could feel his balls drawing back. He let go of his cock, and started fondling his balls, running his finger along the perineum instead. Moriarty twitched, but didn't say anything. After touching Moriarty everywhere save for the place that would give the most pleasure, Sherlock returned his hand to the cock. 

He started stroking him again, and as soon as he felt him get closer again, he stopped on the pretext of licking his hand or adjusting his clothing. As he did so, he looked sidelong through the mirror at Moriarty's face. Moriarty hid his frustrations well, but by the third time Sherlock stopped, his thighs began trembling. He pushed his cock into Sherlock's hand— wrapped his hands around Sherlock's neck for better leverage, and tried to hitch himself rub himself against Sherlock’s thigh. His face was pure ecstasy. 

When Sherlock let go again, Moriarty groaned out, and bit at Sherlock's lips. He wrapped his hand around Sherlock’s hand, and took over with a faster, more desperate rhythm. Sherlock leaned back, almost banging his head against the wall. 

And then, Moriarty was coming, in long spurts, landing everywhere, and obscuring part of the mirror. He pushed Moriarty away—and Moriarty took the initiative to go down on his knees again, sagging together like Sherlock had drained all life out of him. With a few short tugs, and a twist across his head he had copied from the way Moriarty had been wanking him, for verisimilitude, he was coming himself. He tried aiming it towards Moriarty’s puddle, but a string went towards Moriarty’s face. Sherlock couldn’t bring himself to regret the action.

Now that blood wasn’t rushing through his brain anymore, he could hear the noises coming from further up—someone was drilling open the door to the elevator shaft that Sherlock could see through the hole in the roof. Their reinforcements had arrived. Moriarty didn’t look too enthused, and Sherlock deduced from this that it wasn’t Moriarty’s crew who had come to their rescue.

“Sherlock.” Finally the door to the elevator shaft was hinged open, and Lestrange’s face loomed into view, from behind a couple of London’s finest firefighters. There was between the doors and the top of the elevator—not the most difficult hurdle with climbing gear. “Fancy seeing you here! Is the armed robbery of the Prime minister’s tax consultant that was called in half an hour ago in any way related to this?”

Sherlock looked over to Moriarty, who had a glob of semen next to his mouth. As Sherlock was trying to think of something to say, an emotion to muster, outrage perhaps being the most appropriate, Moriarty’s tongue swiped away the spot. He was smug, and satisfied. “Can’t arrest me for sucking your cock,” Moriarty said.

And it dawned on Sherlock. What an extraordinary distraction. But he had to clarify something. “All this wasn’t planned, was it?” What was he trying to do with the details of the Prime Minister’s taxes anyway? Mycroft was going to be _delighted_.

Moriarty’s inscrutable face was back—and here Sherlock had thought that was a result of the suicide attempt—andthen he winked, his fake personality back in place, “Wouldn’t you like to know.”

Sherlock wasn’t stupid, though. He knew his enemy wouldn’t have planned an encounter like this. He was left contemplating the wall as Moriarty heaved himself through the small hole of the elevator, greeting the fire brigade with relief. Lestrade didn’t seem to recognise him, which just went to show. Sherlock could see the ripped seam at the back of Moriarty’s arse of his American designer suit. Sherlock wasn’t going to point it out, and he hoped none of the interviewing officer’s would notice either. Lestrade beckoned; and Sherlock made his way outside, to see what Moriarty had done to the tax consultant’s office.


End file.
